


delicate

by OnePartBrave



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Avengers: Infinity War (Movie), M/M, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 17:40:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13171944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnePartBrave/pseuds/OnePartBrave
Summary: Steve, in the midst of battling extraterrestrials, spots Tony, and his first thought after so long is WOW.





	delicate

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this post](https://toenail-stark.tumblr.com/post/168013499165/steve-in-iw-being-all-hard-edges-never-cracking-a). I love the idea of Steve being all googly-eyed for Tony. Gosh I just want these boys to be happy.

**_"We're going to war."_ **

Understatement of the century. Not like he hadn't been warning them for  _years_ – ever since first battling with something that fell from space – that  _inevitable destruction_  was upon them. Could've taken the time to prepare them, prepare the planet, and instead…

He got war. Between comrades. Between  _"friends"_  – what a loose term that had become lately. Two of his "friends" disappeared from the planet, two betrayed, one lied…

 _God_ , he knew he should've punched him in his  _fucking perfect teeth_  back then.

Really, though, his list of  _friends_  was down to one hand (never had been much more considering recent events). Pepper, bless her she deserved  _so much better_  than what he could offer her; Happy, always so grumpy, always so faithful; Rhodey, out for the count but never far behind; Spider-Man, he, well… he still had the time to betray him.

Leave him.  _Lie to him_.

Pretty certain afterwards, people expected him to break down. Cry, scream, destroy things – anything to indicate the deep duplicity he suffered. Positive a few nasty individuals wanted him to collapse. Desired witnessing him fall yet further from grace and completely obliterate what little dignity he had left.

Sucked for them, as instead of moping, whining, complaining –  _whatever_ – he threw himself into work. Overdrive, fully.

Manifested many blueprints for greater things. Crafted works of art out of metal and solder, melded with sorts of alloys that were sternly on a  _need to know_ basis.

He was working on something big for Iron Man. For himself. For… defensive purposes. Not just because he was suffering more panic attacks than ever before. Not that he had never-ending, recurring nightmares of losing. Not that he was petrified of being stabbed in the back, metaphorically and literally.

No. Not because of anything so  _dramatic_  – ugh.

He was almost there, too. Mere days away from completion, from his biggest achievement to date regarding Iron Man. After struggling to conjure a way of getting the suit to him quicker, no matter his position on the globe, he finally had a brainwave. To solve his problems, he required to have the suit with him, permanently.

None were privy to his thoughts, having become  _slightly_ more closed off in the aftermath of the disaster that ended the Avengers ( _his family_ , damn it). He still felt the shock waves of Rogers' shield slamming down into arc reactor. Still saw the expression of determined heartache.

Willing heartbreak.

Odd how that always worked when it came to him. Some _thing_ – some _one_  – came above him and the rest was history. His father and his Captain America obsession, Pepper and his company (in her defence, he wouldn't stick around for long, either), Rogers and Barnes.

Always. Something.

The only things in the world he depended on – always and forever – were his AI. His creations. Because… because he programmed them that way. Who knew, if they had a choice, they would choose another—

 _Focus._  He needed to focus. A delicate situation was occurring beneath one hand; one tied to the table to prevent the inevitable shakes from overtaking his limb, while the other worked on precision, needing a tiny, powerful microscope to see, welding. One more slither of solder…

_Done._

Slowly, he set aside the welding torch, flexed his restrained left hand gently. No stress, no strain, no negative outcome… yet. Unhurriedly, he loosened the ties on one side, ignoring the shiver of tension and excitement combined in his fingers and… sat back. Informed FRIDAY to mute the wonderful noise that was  _Metallica_  in the background and waited.

A second ticked by. Two seconds. Three seconds.

His brow creased into a deep frown, concentrating at one-hundred percent (at least  _ninety-five_ , he was running on roughly thirty-six cups of coffee and three half-hour accidental power-naps), waiting. Motivated encouragement raced through his mind in various thoughts and feelings, slipping off the end and into desperate begging when the twenty-second mark hit.

It hadn't worked. Nothing worked. All this time, all that effort, all for nothing.  _Every single damned_ —

A glimmer of red and gold made his ( _poor excuse of a_ ) heart skip a beat. His skin, sun-kissed bronze, if slightly faded from months of being isolated, shimmered. Literally. Flecks of  _hot-rod_  red and  _pure_  gold were materialising in front of his very eyes. The entire process was sluggish – he'd need to quicken that up tenfold – and his mind was full of doubt, but slowly, surely… his left-hand piece of the Iron Man suit coated the desired limb.

For the first time in months, a teeny-tiny piece of his fragmented ( _heart_ ) hope shone.

He could do this.

*****

Doctor Stephen Strange was always a welcome sight. Brilliant, adaptable, had awesome facial hair (but that was another matter for another time), but there was just something about Strange he couldn't quite work out.

Plus his speciality (magic,  _hiss_ ), you know,  _sucked_. Well and truly blew.

But, in the world's time of need, he wasn't going to pick and choose his allies. Or, list of people  _yet_  to stab him in the back.

So, when he found himself upon Strange's doorstep, the good Doctor granted him entrance without a struggle – without speaking, either – and he followed like a lost puppy to find his long-lost Hulk. Bruce Banner, an otherwise welcome face in the troubled times, appeared as lost and adorable as he recalled. Not that they had the privilege of a prolonged chat; something foul was amiss in the world.

Which is how he found himself in his current predicament. The only day –  _the one goddamned day_  – he came without a fully functioning suit, aliens decided to attack. How dare they catch him unaware?

Rude. Hmph.

Regardless, he wasn't unprotected, per say. Just a little… underdeveloped. His latest and greatest creation was operational, just extremely unpredictable. Sometimes, he was kicking ass within a matter of milliseconds. Others, well, not so quick. If today happened to be a not-so-quick day, he'd be toast.

Thus, the running and ducking for cover was a must. Crouching presently behind an upturned vehicle, low and down on one knee while using his right hand for support, he waited soundlessly. Hoped he'd hear any approaching menace over the screaming, the yelling, the _panic_. God, what a headache he had. A little way of an escape if what chaos he saw moments before was to go by. What he wouldn't give for Banner's transforming abilities at times such as these…

Magic – did he mention how much he hated it? How badly it sucked? Fortunately, he recognised the sudden swirling circles of gold emerging before him a mere heartbeat later. Therefore, it took him exactly one second to take a flying leap of faith directly through the center. Unfortunately, his landing wasn't soft, and his already laboured breath was knocked out of him.

All of the noise stopped, but his head continuously rang. Like an obnoxious school bell signalling the end of something. Or the beginning. Whatever. He tried to shake it out (unsuccessfully), and there was Banner motioning wildly, eyes owlishly-large, hair chaotic (apparently falling from space did that to you). Strange was notoriously calm, muttering away without a sound – not that he'd hear, the ringing was  _incessant_  – hands waving, but in controlled patterns whereas Banner flailed.

Amusing, really.

Another circle appeared next to him. Abruptly put on edge, he ignored the pounding headache and eyed the circle with suspicion.  _No way_  was he jumping through some portal that would send him to fuck knows where. No way was he… Ranting monologue pausing at spotting something moving in the glassy view of  _where-the fuck-ever_  the portal showed – his breath caught.

More aliens. More fighting. More bloodshed and violence. But, for the love of all that's holy, he knew Romanoff when he saw her.

Wherever  _she_  was…  _they_  were.

Without another thought, he scrambled up from his seated position (still on the floor, thanks for no help, Banner) and dived through the gateway.

More noise –  _fuck,_  his head killed – but he was focused. Romanoff tuck-rolled by, some six-armed monster tailing her closely. He thought about helping, really, he  _did_. Chose against when she used deadly precision to decapacitate said alien in three-seconds flat. So what if more replaced it, she was  _kicking ass_. Didn't need help.

Subsequently, he diverted his attention. Still couldn't hear sweet fuck all but his balance was unaffected. Swept the battleground for the tell-tale sign of enhanced blows being exchanged, a sweep of sunshine hair, a glimpse of sky-blue within the storm…

Bingo. Ahead, a dozen or so yards from his position, was the stuff of legend and ( _his_ ) nightmares. Missing the red, white, and blue, but stars and stripes all the same. Strong, quick, hot, powerful…  _damn it._

He hadn't moved yet (or been noticed) and already his traitorous heart was beating faster. Harder, like it was trying to escape and run to—

His head clanged as metal and rock clashed together to his right. Signalling that as his departure time – the fighting was getting too close to home – he got up from where he landed on his knees and ran. Towards Spangles.

Not cool, totally not cool.

Yet, he persevered. Ducked, dived, dodged, rolled, jumped – all sorts of athletic things his middle-aged body would despise him for later. But he couldn't stop, he had to reach – to  _protect_ —

 _Oh god_ , the dumbass was about to get impaled from behind and was entirely oblivious.  _So what_  if he was tackling three or four in front of him, he should be looking behind! All round! Fucking  _IDIOT!_

Instinct overrode his erratic thought pattern and, thank Thor almighty and the wicked Asgardian gods (what, they were the only ones  _proved_  to exist yet), it was a millisecond day, not a not-so-fast day. Half encased in red and gold by the time the backstabbing ( _heh_ ) alien raised its weapon, he shot off like a rocket, feet repulsors doing their duty. Chest and left hand fully coated – his nanotech was  _fucking fantastic_  if he did say so himself – he reached his moron in the nick of time (why Nick? Why not Tom, or Phil, or Pete, or St—well, maybe  _Pete of time_  didn't have the same ring), secretive-alloy mix easily deflecting the magical ( _for fuck sake_ ) spear away from a leather-clothed back.

If it was a not-so-fast day, he would've been shish-kabobbed, directly through where the old arc reactor scars were.

Possibly to Spangles, too.  _Mortifying_.

Left hand ready, he fired straight at the thing's face. The repulsor whir was lost to the screech of the monster – a barely audible sound to him, head still pounding – and he landed on his side on the floor. And tripped the dumbass up. Whoops.

Undignified was the sprawl of stupidly (hot) muscled legs and arms over his lesser so limbs, but spotting the shock on Spangles' face was enough to draw a dry chortle from his throat. Be damned if actual words spouted instead, he wasn't particularly coherent then.

Though a looming shadow snapped his attention from the amusingly bewildered expression, and both hands shot up in protection, immediately disabling the two lingering aliens closest. All else seemed distracted in some way, thankfully, so he had a few precious moments to gather his composure. Or, whatever he had just lost in the gallant rescue of the one that, firstly, fixed his heart to an extent, to, secondly, puncturing it so deeply he didn't know why he bothered moving from the Siberia base so long ago in the first place.

Spangles took his sweet-ass time to catch his breath (super-soldier serum wearing off there, buddy?), content to relax upon his (not so) soft landing of partial metal and person. Perhaps he thought one of his war buddies was the one to rescue him? Eh, hell if he knew.

Abruptly, he used the raw force of Iron Man's repulsors to shift the lead weight of Spangles, the result a satisfactory grunt of shock and probable discomfort of limbs hitting the solid ground, and stood up. Half encased in magnificent red and gold, resembling some sort of  _wicked android_ , he glared down (with sparse heat in said look) and bided his time for the reaction he knew would arrive.

Repulsion, disappointment, disgust – whatever. Throw it all at him; he was  _so ready_. So ready to kick Spangles' ass from here to Asgard the moment he opened his ridiculous mouth.

"T-Tony…"

Oh. Oh, no. Nooo. Abort plan. Mission critical – _failure eminent_. Treacherous heart racing and mind pulling him in –  _fuck_. Goddamn those blue eyes, so wide and adorable and innocent looking. Mussed up hair, expression of awe on his face.  _Fuckity fuck_. He was supposed to be livid, to want to  _punch him,_ not – not touch, not hold,  _not kiss_.

Definitely not kiss.

Swallowing what felt like sandpaper, he hesitated. Heaven knows why, not like time was on their side in the middle of a battleground, but it seemed all were temporarily unaware of their presence. Peachy.

"…Tony, I—"

Oh, dear god,  _stop talking._  He wouldn't make it. Totally unfair. Unfair at how tempting it was to reach out and touch his perfect, rugged face. It wasn't fair how attractive he was with a beard, wasn't fair how he gawked up at him like it was the first time witnessing him – damnit left hand,  _get back by his side!_ Don't touch!

_Wasn't fair._

Subconscious shaking mysteriously stopped so he could cup a chiselled, prickly cheek. Not that he felt it beneath the half-formed armour, but it didn't matter. What mattered was the insurmountable peacefulness that enveloped them both. The ringing in his ears ceased, his heartrate ascended – he still hadn't responded but with touch yet.

Maybe because he was sick of talking so much; to be ignored, ridiculed, or yelled at. Maybe because he feared his throat would close and prevent him from breathing. Maybe… because everything was just a little too real,  _still_   _too raw_.

"Tony—"

His left hand – still a damned traitor for not listening beforehand – raised and covered Spangles' ( _Steve's_ ) mouth. Instantaneously, the calm around them broke and all hell broke loose. They were unpaused from whatever freaky-deaky moment they participated in, and were back with the rabble. More importantly, in the targets of several vexing aliens.

Later, his gaze promised. For now, there was more at stake than the fragile bond still fighting for life between them.

_Later._

*****

When aliens hit Wakanda, Steve knew they would have one hell of a fight on their hands.

Big, ugly, and brutal were the enemies in relentlessly endless numbers. All sorts of advanced (weird) weaponry kept them on their toes, but they lacked real… strength. He couldn't pinpoint it, but with each decisively harsh blow, he noticed more weak points and less coordination.

Soon, the limitless number of enemies posed no real worry – there was so many warriors on their side from the start. Their foes only got the advantage from their startled state to begin with.

Slowly, surely, he ploughed through every individual unfortunate enough to head his way. Super-soldier strength kept him going strong, conviction impossible to sway. Eventually, they gathered one-on-one wouldn't cut it and started attacking him in groups.

Two, three, four – he tackled each new threat head on. Nothing was standing in his way of protecting the people.

Protecting the recently awakened Bucky.

Thoughts of Bucky occasionally spurred on thoughts of the Avengers ( _his team…_ ), and that, spurred on thoughts of Iron Man.

Of  _Tony_.

Oops, distracted. He took a swell punch to the jaw as a reward. Momentarily stunned, he dispelled the clouded feeling with haste, and forced his head back into the game. Two were left standing before him, coming at him from all angles, and that was where his sight was. Despite the hair on the back of his neck standing up, instinct telling him to duck, to run, to turn around…

Oddly, thoughts of Tony struck him again. Ignited by what this time, he was unsure, but the heartachingly familiar sound of a repulsor hit him. Stalled him. Briefly immobilised him from the sheer weight of the memory alone. Until he ducked beneath a nasty right hook and, embarrassingly, tripped. Fell flat over something painfully solid, the rear of his skull cracking nicely against the trudged-up grass below.

Ouch.

Stars danced in front of his eyes fleetingly, the dazed feeling becoming oddly… warming. The odd shape under his star-fished appendages was absurdly comforting. Like… a far-off dream. He felt like he was in a dream, catching his breath while the world turned slowly on around him –  _without him._ What he wouldn't give…

Seemingly, his comfortable cushion wasn't as pleased as he was with staying stationary (or the position, perhaps?), abruptly leapt up – he swore his mind was playing tricks on him by then, he heard a repulsor  _again_  – and forced him to curl in upon himself tightly, spine cracking with the strain. Grunting, he was slow to move. Or look up at the stare he could feel upon his face.

Awkward?

Squinting, he peered up at the mysterious lump blocking the sunlight from his gaze – and both eyes snapped open wide. Jaw worked but no sound emitted; holy fudge how much of a mess was he? Hair everywhere, beard unkempt, clothes filthy, and likely bleeding and bruised – ugh. Not the first impression he wanted to give after so long, nor did he _want_  to stare, but… but it was…

"T-Tony…"

Damn it, he commanded attention and looked as elegant as ever, even with messy hair, narrowed eyes in a heated glare (directed at him, a voice reminded him. He promptly ignored it, because,  _Tony_ ). Something was thumping distressingly against his rib cage and he raised a hand to ensure some alien tech hadn't embedded itself in his chest and was going to implode.

Nope. Just his silly heart skipping beats at merely seeing Tony. Seemed like nothing had changed.

His staggered breathing concerned him too. Felt like he was back however many decades ago, struggling for breath due to having severe asthma and a weaker body. Funny how much Tony affected him with simply  _being_.

He didn't think he'd ever get over it. Didn't  _want_  to, maybe.

"…Tony, I—"

Like the first time they met, he was fighting for words. Dazzled by his appearance, his charm, his dashing smile – it was a lot to take in. Still was, if his flailing mind was any implication. How could he form words when he was observing the love of this life, the most precious pain in his ass, staring down at him like… God knows only what was going through Tony's mind, but his mind was in  _pure awe_.

Unadulterated admiration and appreciation.

A new armour (of course Tony created a new one; the last one was  _smashed up_ ), one that cloaked him like a regal warrior's getup. Shimmered and shined, classic red and gold, but worn like a – like a second skin? He was pretty sure if he squinted hard enough, his enhanced vision could pick up shifting molecules between the cut-off parts of armour and Tony's civilian attire. But who cared? Really?

It was amazing.  _Wonderful, protective, flawless_  – all like it's creator.  _Oh jeez, Rogers_. He was fawning. Thought he'd gotten over that years ago, but apparently not.

Sleek, cool-to-the-touch metal appendages tapping his cheek in a ghostly touch captured his attention. Enticed, he automatically responded with leaning into the barely-there pressure, unable to ignore the faint stutter in Tony's breathing as a result. Even then, after everything, Steve still affected him. They still affected each other.

They…  _could they…?_

"Tony—"

The hand cupping his cheek in a delicate manner slipped around his heated skin and shielded his mouth. Stopped any words from spilling out and he swallowed soundly. Unreasonably curious eyes of his flicked up and the magical bubble around them popped. Suddenly, it wasn't just the two of them anymore. His heart ached fiercely at the thought, but his gaze held steady, meeting the soft, gorgeous, doe-brown peering down at him.

And, he understood.

 _Not now._ There was too much happening, too much at stake, and their comrades needed them. Not now… later.

 _God_ , how he prayed there would be a later.


End file.
